It’s a game borne of stubborn pride that began a little over a year ago when we first purchased those colorful plastic chalices at a discount store.

So pretty, we said. So tall. So spacious. So perfect. What’s not to like?

So very not dishwasher safe, that’s what. We learned after the first wash, when some delicate hair-line shoots appeared at the base of each cup.

Now, any normal family would just hand wash the no-longer-perfect vessels at the first sign of fissure. But did we switch to hand washing to preserve said drinkware? We did not. This might be my fault. Although my brain has fully processed and accepted the prescribed procedure for hand-washing dishes, I’m not exactly, shall we say, enamored with the task. I’d rather do most anything else.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that, were my dishwasher to blow a gasket an hour before guests arrived for a swanky black-tie gala, I’d swap out the good china for paper plates in an instant. You can really learn something about folks by watching them try to stab at carrots with plastic cutlery, know what I mean?

So naturally, we continued to use these tumblers daily, dumping them thoughtlessly into the dishwasher, which, as dishwashers are wont to do, would steam-heat those suckers at about 130 degrees.

Every day.

Beautiful, horrible, fascinating

With each wash, the intricate lines deepen and spread like a Jack Frost original across the plastic canvass. Any day now, either a slow leak will seep onto our coffee table and coat it with a sticky grape juice veneer, or, amid a sudden shattering explosion, one of us is going to wind up with a lap full of iced tea.

Kaboom.

Yet we persist.

Why do we do this, when disaster is utterly avoidable? When it happens, and it will happen, the mess is going to be epic. These are 32-ounce containers.

I think part of the reason we do this is because each of us believes, deep down, that one of the other two is going to get it. From an entertainment perspective, for the two observers, D-Day has the potential to be highly amusing. Assuming, of course, we’re out of the soaking radius. And assuming we’re out the soak-ee’s rage range.

When it happens, I promise to post a damage report.

But let’s switch tracks now, shall we?

When you think of it, we’re all playing a similar game, only with life. Sadly, in this case the stakes are a bit higher. What kind of Tumbler Roulette are YOU playing? Is your Last Will and Testament so out of date it lists the oldest of your four children as your only dependent? Are you putting off that doctor’s visit about the lump on your leg because you’re afraid to get bad news? Charging just one more item to that credit card?

Kaboom.

Why do we gamble so flippantly when disaster is completely avoidable? Why are we so surprised when the tumbler shatters? Some of us even go so far as to get angry at God when the tumbler shatters. Plastic wasn’t in his original design scheme, don’t forget.

However, he is holding out a tumbler of sorts that he wants very much for you to deal with. What do you suppose it might be? And, now that you’ve been reminded, what are you going to do about it?

Don’t delay, there may not be much time before it shatters.

——————–

Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest. –Proverbs 6:6-8